by Merry Farmer
Clutching his chest, Mr. Evans’ eyes rolled wildly, and he slumped forward, collapsing on top of Alana, his body twitching. She shoved him off with a shudder. Crossing the room in three steps, Captain Shaw slid his arms under her, lifting her from the floor, and carried her to the bed. Gently laying her on the mattress, his hands skimmed over her exposed legs, inspecting a deep laceration in her skin. She winced.
Mr. Hayward appeared in the doorway. “Your suspicion was correct, Captain.” He held out a bulging sack. “All the pilfered items were found among Mr. Evans’ possessions. The crew will be informed of his treachery.”
“Return the items to the original owners.” Captain Shaw jerked his head at Mr. Evans’ immobile body. “His share will be evenly distributed among the crew.”
Slinging the sack over his shoulder, Mr. Hayward walked across the room, dropping a bundle of cloth on the bed. His sympathetic eyes sliding over Alana, he knelt beside the bed, setting down the sack. He reached out, his hand brushing across her forehead.
“Not much I can do about the pain, but this will stop the bleeding.”
Captain Shaw grabbed Mr. Hayward’s wrist, squeezing until their arms shook.
“I’ll administer her care.”
Mr. Hayward nodded once, retracting his hand. His gaze sliding to Mr. Evans, he leaned over, poking Mr. Evans’ shoulder.
“Do you intend to execute the plan we discussed?”
“I do,” replied Captain Shaw. His fingers combed the loose strands of hair away from Alana’s face, tucking them behind her ear.
Rising, Mr. Hayward lifted Mr. Evans from the floor, throwing the body over his shoulders. Then grabbing the sack, he spun and lugged Mr. Evans toward the door, grunting with each step.
“Should you assist him?” asked Alana, pushing up on her elbows.
Captain Shaw stood with an amused snort. “Do you need my assistance?”
“No,” growled Mr. Hayward as if insulted by Alana’s suggestion of weakness. Captain Shaw followed him and after a quick whispered conversation, closed and locked the door. He spun around, his heated gaze sliding over Alana.
“You are inappropriately dressed for mixed company.”
“It was not by choice.” She grimaced, rolling to her side and reached for the discarded trousers. He dove across the room, his hand closing around hers. She glanced up, staring into his eyes.
“It will save me the trouble of taking them off you again.” He grinned, pulling the trousers from her fingers, dropping them back on the floor. Sitting beside her on the mattress, he took her hand, his thumb gently skimming her wrist.
“I have a confession to make.”
Her heart hammered wildly. What could he possibly have to admit to her? Swallowing, she forced herself into a sitting position. Reaching around her, he propped the pillow behind her back.
“Mr. Evans is the first man I’ve killed.”
“What?” Her jaw dropped. “But Mr. Ashmore…”
He offered her a small smile and shook his head, rising to his feet. Walking over to his desk, he snagged a bottle from the corner, and returned to the bed, holding it out to her.
“For the pain.”
“Thank you,” she replied, lifting the bottle to her lips. The burning liquid slid down her throat, dulling the throbbing ache. She held out the bottle, but he refused, pacing from one end of the room to the other, dragging his hand through his hair.
Spinning around, he opened his mouth and paused, turned away again, resuming his pacing. After another pass, he stopped halfway to the bed and snapped his heels together, bowing formally.
“Mrs. Dubois, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced… my name is Mr. Charles Ashmore.”
Alana gasped. “You can’t be.”
“You never met my father, did you?” He shuffled toward her, slowly, as though afraid she would run from the room.
She shook her head, setting the bottle on the floor. “Patrick refused to allow me to attend your funeral.”
“You didn’t miss anything.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there.” He shrugged, a boyish grin on his face.
“You should have told him!” She slammed her fist on the mattress. “Your death destroyed him. He abandoned the family and retreated to a lighthouse; we never see him.”
“I did tell him. I’m not the reason Patrick is hiding in that godforsaken lighthouse!” Dropping beside her, he lifted the ball of scraps, separating a piece and setting the cloth beside him. Reaching over, he drew her legs onto his lap, wrapping the bandage around the deep laceration in her thigh. His calloused hands moved over her skin, sliding up her arms, binding each wound. “Are there more?” he asked softly.
“There are cuts across my back.”
A grin split his face. “For the purposes of treating your injuries, you’ll need to remove your shirt.”
Dropping her hands to the hem and lifting it slightly, she paused, narrowing her eyes. “Do you promise not to enjoy yourself?”
He shook his head. “I can’t swear to something I have no intention of following.”
Swallowing her grin, she raised the shirt, exposing her stomach. He hissed. A large gash ran along her abdomen. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Lying to me again, Mrs. Dubois?” He reached out and tugged her shirt up, pulling it free of her body, his eyes traveling over her bruised skin. “I doubt your brother will forgive me for this incident.”
“He’s forgiven you for others?” She sucked in a sharp breath as his hands wound the cloth around her abdomen.
“Many times.” He tilted his head. “I would be correct in my assumption that Patrick never revealed my secret.”
“He didn’t. Everyone thinks you’re dead.” She sank her teeth into her lip, debating her question. “Why did you leave?”
“My father…” His voice trailed off, his gaze staring into the distance. After several moments, he shook himself, his eyes clearing. “My father was an abusive man. He took pleasure in hitting his wife and children. When I was fourteen years old, he beat me unconscious with a whip. My mother intervened, and he killed her.”
Alana reached out her hand, but he twisted away. Pulling his shirt from his body, he turned around, revealing a map of scars across his shoulders. She touched her fingers to his back, running them lightly over the rough skin in a comforting gesture. He leaned into her hand.
“I threatened to turn him into the constable, and he swore if he was arrested, he’d ensure my sister and I were left destitute. I couldn’t leave Cora without protection, so I stayed silent. My father and I had a tumultuous relationship after that, hardly speaking more than six words in the years that followed. But everything changed when Cora met her husband. I saw her happily married, then I made my escape.”
“But why pretend you were dead?”
“It was a fortuitous accident,” he laughed and bumped his forehead against hers. “The night I left for America, my father was away on business. I walked into his room, heading straight for his armoire, where he’d hidden several pieces of my mother’s jewelry in a locked drawer. Prying the drawer open, I took every piece, sewed them into the lining of my coat, save one, which I sold for my ticket to America. But my ship was attacked by pirates.”
Alana snorted.
“I was given the same decision as you. I, too, found favor with the captain, who remains one of my dearest friends.”
“Did your father know you took the jewelry?” asked Alana, burning with curiosity.
“He did.” A sad smile pulled at his mouth. He placed his hand on her leg. “That is why I cannot return to England. There is a reward for the capture of Mr. Charles Ashmore. If I am discovered alive, I will be arrested. Your brother knows this.”
“It’s not quite as much as the reward for Captain Cedric Shaw.” Alana shifted, acutely aware of his fingers, which drew tiny circles on her leg, scattering goosebumps across her skin.
“I suppose you are correct.” He si
ghed, the heavy sound rolling over her.
“Could you not just use a different name?”
“Where would you suggest I get this name? A man with wealth and no history is not to be trusted.”
“I have a name you can borrow.”
He arched an eyebrow, his fingers stopping mid-stroke. “What would this name cost me?”
“Your bachelorhood,” she replied.
“I am intrigued; do continue.” His fingers resumed their seductive dance, sliding up her thigh.
She was finding it difficult to think.
“No one, outside of my family, is aware of my husband’s death. I did not announce it to society. If you assumed his name, you could return to England with me.”
Skating up her leg, his hand dipped between her legs. She gasped, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.
“Mrs. Dubois, are you proposing to me?” he murmured, his eyes blazing. His hand separated her legs, brushing lightly over her sex.
“Mmm,” was all she could manage, arching her body.
“What would your family think… married to a pirate?” Bending closer, he stopped centimeters from her skin.
“Patrick already knows you,” she replied, her eyes flicking to his mouth.
“I’m not certain Patrick would support your plan.” His hand cupped her face, the pad of his thumb sliding across her lips.
“Aidan will.” She trembled.
“Why do you think that?” Leaning forward, he gently lowered her back onto the bed, resting on his elbows, and trapping her between his arms. He drew his finger across the tiny line etched into her throat.
“Because he swore to help me find Patrick a wife if I came back from America married.” Her breath hitched. “And bringing you with me would fulfill that requirement.”
“I would be delighted to help with that endeavor; Patrick has been single far too long.” His mouth touched hers, sending sparks rippling through her body. Moaning, she wrapped her hands around his torso. He pulled away, his dark eyes searching hers. “Before I agree to your inane plan, I have one question. Why would you tie yourself to me?”
She smiled. “You risked your life to save mine. I can think of no better way to repay you for that kindness—”
“Than to take away my freedom?” he smirked.
She shoved his chest, turning her head away. “You don’t have to marry me.”
Hooking his finger under her chin, he drew her face back toward him. “I didn’t say no, I’m merely trying to understand why you would make this decision. If you continue to America, you could find a better match.”
“Or I could find a scoundrel.” She tilted her head. “And you, sir, no matter how much you pretend, cannot shed your gentility.”
“Betrayed by my breeding.” Scooting forward, he pressed his mouth to hers, gently nipping the corner of her lips.
She pushed him away, panting, her hands splayed across his chest. Her body protested.
“I have the same question for you. Why would you agree to this plan?”
Glancing down at her hands, he smiled. “Mrs. Dubois—”
“Alana,” she corrected.
“Alana.” He inclined his head once. “Since I met you, nothing in my life has gone as expected. You are opinionated, refuse to follow directions, challenge me at every decision… and I rather enjoy that.” A strange light glowed in his eyes. “For the first time in years, you’ve offered me a solution which allows me to return home and see my dearest sister, who I miss so very much… and to do that with you on my arm, I can think of no greater happiness.” Taking her right hand, he lifted it to his mouth, his lips touching her knuckles.
A horrifying thought flying through Alana’s mind, she gasped, retracting her hand.
“What if your father recognizes you?”
“It’s been years since my ‘death.’ Even with a resemblance, he would never suspect I falsified my demise, and with the name of a Frenchman, he would have no cause to investigate.” He retook her hands, pinning them above her head, his intense gaze sliding over her body.
“What happened to the rest of the jewelry, the pieces you sewed into your coat?” she asked, wriggling impatiently beneath him.
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth. “I’ll show you once we dock in Ceresus.”
“How much longer will that be?”
“Almost two weeks,” he replied, one hand released her wrists, skating across her collarbone. “More than enough time to properly introduce myself to every part of your body.”
Alana blushed deeply. “I am shocked by your words.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head, grinning. “I am a pirate.”
“A reformed pirate.”
Dipping his head, he touched his mouth to the hollow of her throat, dragging his lips along her jawline.
“At this moment, there is only one thought in my mind.”
“Which is?” Alana asked, breathlessly.
“Hearing my new wife yell my name with abandon.”
She blushed, the color gliding across her skin until she glowed pink. Desire rippled through her body, pooling in her stomach.
“What name should I say?”
“Charles,” he replied, “I’d like to hear my given name on your lips.”
“Charles,” she said, testing the word; his eyes blazed. She murmured it again, pulling one arm free of his grip. Her hand rose, cupping his face.
With a growl, he lunged forward, his mouth finding hers, his hands sliding over her body, caressing, teasing. They moved together, rising and falling as passion overtook them. Limbs intertwined, they laid panting. His hand slid across the bed, wrapping around her fingers.
“Thank you for bringing me home.”
She curled into his embrace, her eyes fluttered closed. In the back of her mind, a small nagging thought tickled her subconscious.
Had they captured Mr. Franklin Morris yet?
About Alyssa Drake
USA Today Bestselling Author Alyssa Drake has been creating stories since she could hold a crayon, preferring to construct her own bedtime tales instead of reading the titles in her bookshelves. A multi-genre author, Alyssa currently writes Historical romance, Paranormal romance, Romantic suspense, and Cozy mystery, blending a little bit of love with a little bit of mystery.
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The Spinster's Guide to Piracy and Plunder
by Harmony Williams
Chapter 1
Leave Your Old Life Behind
Late March, 1801
Eavesdropping did not become a well-mannered lady.
In my defense, England was a cold, wet, maudlin place, and if I couldn’t spend time out of doors, I had to entertain myself somehow. Especially when my future hinged upon one conversation in a room from which I had been barred. What was a lady to do except idle on the stairs, straining to hear through the thick oak of the study door?
Not that I could hear a word from my vantage point, not even the muffled whisper of sound. However, if I descended to the bottom of the stairs, I risked the men inside catching me if they exited unexpectedly.
The facts begged further examination.
One: A tall, broad-shouldered, commanding man in a uniform of British Navy blue had knocked on my door.
Two: Without preamble, he had asked to speak with my father privately.
Three: Papa was a Frenchman and hadn’t lost his accent despite nearly a decade in England. Most of the neighborhood did little to hide their distaste for his—and my—origins. A distaste only compounded by the fact that Papa’s first wife, my mother, had been a colored woman from Sainte-Domingue. I was foreign through and through.
Four: Papa made no secret he would welcome a distinguished son-in-law from the military.
Five: I met this man in the village yesterday when he caught and handed back
my bonnet, flung off by the wind. Aside from two words—thank you—I have never spoken with him. Something about him had stirred my nerves. The brush of his hand leaving tingles, or the admiring way his gaze caressed my face. Could he have been so taken with the mere sight of me that he tripped over himself to beg Papa for my hand?
It was a romantic notion—a foolish notion. One I stamped out at once. Although my accent wasn’t as pronounced as Papa’s, my origins were as plain as my complexion, never pale enough to meet the current fashion. What would a navy man want with a Frenchman’s daughter of mixed race?
Without listening to the conversation, I would never know.
I balanced on the balls of my feet as I tried to sidle closer without giving myself away. My toes scraped against the top of the stair. Hard wood, then a furry, fleshy body.
The cat yowled. I stumbled. A blur to my eyes, the orange and black cat launched down the stairs like cannon fire, making as much noise. I clutched the banister as my legs fell out from under me. The soles of my slippers kissed the open air. I crashed down several steps and landed in a tangle of limbs. I groaned.
Perhaps it was for the better that they barred women from joining the military. I would make a terrible spy.
Nearer to the door, I heard muffled voices stop speaking. I held my breath. My knee throbbed, my arms ached, but I didn’t dare move. A second trickled past, followed swiftly by another. The door remained shut. The voices, if they continued, were even softer.
“Bordel de merde,” I cursed. Now I couldn’t hope to overhear.
A woman cleared her throat. My heart thundering, I twisted to peer up the stairs.
Delicate slippers, the toes embroidered with French roses. The spotless hem of a diamond-patterned yellow dress. Up my gaze travelled, past the weathered hand gripping the knob of her cane to the shrewd eyes that chastised me for my indelicate language.
I didn’t resemble my paternal grandmother, with her skin so pale her veins spider-webbed across the back of her hand. Her snowy white hair was cropped short around her ears, no-nonsense was she. For the first half of my life, I’d known her only in letters. The distance between us changed with the French Revolution when we’d fled from France to England and the safety of her house.
